


The united coalition of bellpepper, chapter 1

by orphan_account



Category: RimWorld (Video Game)
Genre: Centaurs, M/M, Medical Procedures, Nobetawedielikemen, Rape/Non-con Elements, Size Difference, Size Kink, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29225628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “You will at least carry it with you.”“I will not,” Thorgan said simply, wiping his forehead.  He breathed deeply a few times, pulled his flask around for a drink, then leaned into his harness to start dragging the plow again.  It wasn’t a real plow, just a few blades of metal hammered together, but it worked nearly as well.  Thorgan was grateful to both of his companions for making it.“You *will.*”  Sparta limped alongside for a few steps, gripping the straps of the holster so hard, his knuckles were white.  Then, “You are infuriating.”“Thank you,” Thorgan fought to keep the grin off his face for a moment, then gave it up as a lost cause.  “Truly.  I’d end up shooting off my own hoof or something.”“When the two-legs come to thieve whatever you are planting, you will wish you had a weapon."
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	The united coalition of bellpepper, chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Standard crashlanded start, with some obvious mods including Rimjobworld, alien support, centaurs, Babies&children, etc. If you play this, I'd recommend against high power mods like Glitter or VOID, since the ponyboys can't wear shield or control belts or armor heavier than flack.

Thorgan blinked awake.

It was dark here, wherever here was – smelling of metal, hay, and fur. His legs felt liquid, heavy, and only the broad strap beneath his belly kept him standing. He felt as if he was swaying slightly, or perhaps the entire room was, hard to be certain, but from the way the sound of his breath reflected he thought he might be someplace small. A stable stall, then? He tried to reach out to touch, and only then discovered that his hands were bound, wrist to elbow, behind his back. The tube constraining them was soft, but from the ache in his shoulders, they’d been bound for a while. His stomachs rumbled emptily.

Thorgan cleared his throat, thinking perhaps to speak in the language of his Masters, the only one he knew, but – yes, he wore a bit and harness. That wasn’t unusual, to be honest. Still, he made what muffled sound he could, listening for any reply. 

A heavy thump echoed from his right. Unshod hooves on metal, maybe, powered by massive haunches but without a lot of room for a good kick. So at least he wasn’t alone, and that brought comfort. 

As though summoned by the sound, the light blinked on. Thorgan was facing a wall, a slab of plasteel. The hiss of an autodoor had him craning around as best he could. “—be a good haul,” said a voice, followed by clinking metal. “You seen the last auction for these things on the last glitterworld, right?”

“For the little garden ones, yeah. Half of these are way too big for that.” Something sounded like the squeaky cart wheels. Thorgan could just make out the opposite row of stalls, each filled with the horselike rearquarters and long flowing tails of more centaurs. Adults, most of them, heavy with muscle. He couldn’t see any brandings. The forebodies of most of them slumped against the walls, still unconscious. 

“Shouldn’t matter, I figure. Once they’re gelded, they’ll sell just the same,” said the first voice. Thorgan watched a two-leg enter his narrow field of view, regarding the rows of stalls dispassionately. The baseline human was dark-haired, dressed all in the sheen of a strange synthread bodysuit. He turned and walked back out of sight. “These younger ones just need the band. Should take them off by the time we arrive. Can start with that.”

A slapping sound echoed. To Thorgan’s left, something squealed, muffled. “Cute little balls. Where’s its cock?”

“In the sheath. Little one like this, gracile-type, might be no bigger than yours,” the first human laughed. “You don’t wanna take that off, though, some bitch will probably enjoy it. Or the buyer can get it cut.”

“What good would that be?” said the second voice curiously, over a muffled sob.

“Oh, maybe they wanna use the beast as a showpiece. Maybe they only want it for the ass. Either way, though, mutts like this ain’t gonna stand stud, and you don’t want them knocking up your other stock, so—”

“The ass? Oh, you mean…” that outraged squeal echoed again. Hooves thumped again on the wall to Thorgan’s right.

“Pretty plush, right? Tried a few, really fantastic. You can test it out. Band ‘em first.”

“Yeah – ok, just here?”

“Down closer to the balls. Tighten it up, yeah, then wait for the count of two…. Then yep, final click.” This time, the sound from Thorgan’s left was closer to a scream.

Thorgan discovered he was shivering in fear, skin twitching uncontrollably. The centaur to his right was kicking, bucking against the limits of his stall and bindings. The two humans laughed a little. “Loud, huh? Try the hoof oil.”

“Gonna need that footstool… there.” Wet slick sounds for several moments. “God, it’s tight. Didn’t think it’d be this soft.” The sobbing from Thorgan’s left was constant now. 

“Well, you’re a big boy.” Thorgan jumped at the slap of a hand on his haunch, would have kicked if he could. The first human was back, pushing his tail aside. Thorgan was used to being handled, ever since he’d been trained as a foal to pull the plows and carts in his little agrarian colony. He vaguely recalled a before, a time with no two-legs, but hauling things had been his life for so long, it didn’t really seem to matter anymore. Uncaring fingers cupped his soft, furred scrotum, moved down to stroke his sheath. Thorgan hissed as the head started to emerge. 

“Can you imagine the bitch that’d want this inside her?” Thorgan’s sight went red as those fingers found the flared tip and pinched cruelly. He might have collapsed, if not for the sling. Then the human turned to prodding at the soft ring of his ass, rubbing something wet there. The human kicked another footstool closer. “The big ones like this, we gonna have to cut,” he said conversationally, freeing his own cock from his bodysuit. He put the head of it against the puffy little hole. 

“Oh yeah?” said the other human, breathless, over the squeals of the other centaur.

“Easy, though. You just open the sack with the first knife there,” he started pushing inside. Thorgan panted, head down, trying not to choke on the bit. He couldn’t – no one had ever put something in him like this, like he was a mare, or a raider. He knew he needed to relax, but the sheer terror of this wouldn’t let him unclench. It hurt. Where were his humans, his Masters? They, they would stop this from happening, they had to, their hands were hard when he deserved it but they were fair and this—

The human’s cock shoved in, stretching painfully, and a muffled yelp tore from Thorgan’s throat, escaped past the bit. “Then you wipe the blood, and just pop the balls out through the slit,” the human added conversationally, reaching down to steady his dick. God, this one was tight. He rocked in another few inches. “Cut the seminal cord, and you can pull the nuts right off. Simple as that.” A little more of the hoof oil, and then gripping the base of Thorgan’s tail, he started sawing in and out, pounding the soft spongy tissue.

“That easy?” Gasped the first voice.

“Yup. Take – umph – take half an hour for the whole lot. Little more if – if we gotta sew – damn, these things are hot inside. Built to take it.” The human slapped his haunch to make him shiver, pushed again, balls deep. Thorgan put his forehead against the cold wall, tears dripping, as his hole was ravaged – for minutes, maybe. Then the human grunted, stilled, painting his channel with warm come. 

With a satisfied sigh, the human pulled out, leaving the hole wet and clenching helplessly around nothing. The wet, slapping noise from Thorgan’s left evened out, then stopped as the first two-legs likewise finished. “What a great little whore,” the man breathed. “Even if it is an animal. Which knife was it, again?”

“This one. I’ll do the first.” Thorgan struggled as the hand came back, gripping his shrinking testicles. Terror rode him. He got nowhere.

“So you start with—"

A klaxon blared, louder than the dawn work bell. The lights flickered. Then screaming, shouting, the shrill of tearing metal, gasping for breath while his stomachs tried to climb his throat, and finally nothing but darkness.

\--

Thorgan came blearily awake. This time, his head wasn’t fuzzed with drugs, but his body *hurt*, from mane to tail. Sun-scalded grass flattened gently in the breeze, tickling his nose, and the air smelled like soil and burning. If this were a dream, he wouldn’t hurt so badly, surely – everything was bruised, his lungs ached with every breath. His legs – they weren’t broken, he thought, and some buried instinct (be ready to run, ready to run) lead him to roll over, to gather them beneath his body and lever to his knees. He staggered upright, arms still bound.

He was in a canyon, he thought, foreboding walls like stoic monoliths under the moonlight. Flames crackled around twists of metal and plasteel wreckage scattered all down the slope. Wh—how—his balls even hurt, and that brought back a flood of memories. He’d been… had they—

Desperately, Thorgan staggered for a tree, legs shivering like a colt’s. The rough bark of the acacia caught him, and he twisted, scrubbing his arm bindings against the surface. The tree’s thorns scratched at his skin. It took minutes to abrade through the tough bindings, but the material finally snapped. Thorgan’s shoulders screamed a protest as the strain vanished, and the worst pins and needles he’d ever felt swept over both arms. They felt like sacks of meat at his sides, unresponsive, hardly able to twitch. Hot air ruffled his coat as he tried to shake some sensation back into them. 

When he could finally feel his fingers, Thorgan tore the tattered harness and bit from his head, then reached back and down, beneath the barrel of his body. His hide was sticky in places, blood maybe. But his balls were there, drawn tight with fear despite the warm air. 

He’d… been in a skyship. With slavers, glitterworld slavers. And… it must have crashed, somehow, like a cart pushed too close to the edge of a drainage canal, spilling its contents. They must have stolen him from the two-legs who owned him. He… he had to go back to them, they’d want that. They wouldn’t use the whip on him, if he went back, if he found the harness and took it with him. They’d be angry if he lost his equipment. But. That place had been cold, close to a boreal forest. It was so hot here, nothing but a broad plane of patchy grass and soil and sand, half ringed by tall canyon walls. Where…?

Thorgan took a few shaking steps, unsure, before a dark lump on the ground suddenly moved and if Thorgan had been able, he would have spooked and maybe struck out with his hooves. As it was, just dancing aside nearly tumbled him to the ground. The lump stirred again, whimpering, and in a pop of nearby flame, Thorgan saw legs curling protectively closer to an equine body. 

“Centaur?” Thorgan whispered, and had to lick the blood from his cracked, dry lips. He fell heavily to his abraded knees, reaching out to touch. Warm piebald fur tufted between his fingers. “You – what happened, can you stand?” He patted over the lithe body, the legs, trying to feel for wounds. If he’d broken a leg, he might never work again, and then the Masters would put him down….

Nothing felt broken, but as Thorgan patted up the other centaur’s thigh, the smaller centaur woke with a scream, legs kicking out, upper body twisting so hard the tube holding his arms creaked. “Aiee!” he tried to say more, choaking against the bit in his mouth.

“Woah, woah, just hold on—” Thorgan reached for the straps. 

As soon as the harness pulled free, half-addled pleas fell from the smaller centaur’s mouth. “I’ll do anything, please, please don’t, I’ll be good, please take it off, it hurts so much—” 

The little piebald’s accent was so thick, Thorgan could hardly understand him, but he set to work on the arm bindings anyway. The rubber-like tube had partly torn through, but even still, he had to find a sharp piece of fallen metal and use that to carefully cut the other centaur’s arms free. But when his arms flopped free, the crying and begging didn’t stop.

“Please, please be quiet,” Whispered Thorgan, feeling helpless. If they were in the wild, now, far from a colony… who knew what beasts might lurk so far from home? Like his, the other centaur’s arms seemed too numb to move effectively. But he was trying to reach—

Oh. Unthinking, Thorgan felt back under the other centaur’s tail, and where he expected smoothly furred skin… was only a mass of swollen tender-hot flesh. The fallen centaur screamed, shrill and agonized, head thrown back, the sound echoing and amplified by the canyon walls. Oh gods. Feeling sick, Thorgan forced himself to keep going, at last finding a hard, unforgiving band clenched so tight around the tender balls that the skin was slick there and felt like paper. Blind in the darkness, he traced the edges, found something metal, hard and toothed. A ratchet? The other centaur choked on vomit, crying.

Steeling himself, Thorgan got his nails under what might be the lever, and tugged. The screaming cut off, and he prayed the other centaur had only fallen unconscious. Then the end of the loop slithered free and the whole thing came off, sticking gummily to the tender skin. Thorgan threw the thing into the darkness. Then he shuffled forward, bruising his skinned knees on the stony soil, up to the boy’s throat to feel for a pulse. 

The little piebald still lived, and at least there was that. Thorgan rested, just breathing, feeling like he might collapse if he tried to stand. 

A time passed, perhaps a few minutes. The moon at last emerged through a gap in the clouds, and in the sudden light, Thorgan could make out the spiky leaves of young healroot plants. His cracked lips ached, and he reached out, snapped off several of the fleshy leaves. He peeled them, ate a little of the bitter pulp, spread the rest on his burned or chapped skin. Then his other wounds seemed to ache all the more fiercely, and he dug ragged fingernails into the sandy soil until the roots came up. The juice wrung from the fibrous roots burned as he dripped it into the scrapes and abrasions, but at least the gouges wouldn’t turn rotten now. 

Hoping that the boy would remain unconscious, Thorgan dripped some of the liquid onto the other centaur’s abused balls. He wasn’t so lucky. The young piebald woke with a muffled scream, flailing and kicking like he was trying to drag himself away. “Hey, hey, it’s alright, it’s just healroot,” he tried to reassure the other demi-equine, but he couldn’t be sure his words were even comprehensible in the piebald’s state. He couldn’t just kneel here while the boy sobbed. “Its… its ok, I promise. You’re safe now,” Thorgan lied. “Just… just rest here, alright? I need to look for other survivors.”

The boy hiccuped, seemed to nod. Then Thorgan levered himself up, waited until the world stopped tilting, and went to investigate the wreckage. 

Flames still licked over most of the metal, and Thorgan could smell burning meat, the stink of animal entrails. He thought at first they’d hit something when they fell… before he found one of the two-legs. The upper half, anyway. The rest had been sheered off, was deeper into the wreckage and already aflame, connected to the top part only by a broken pink rope. Shuddering, he went to explore the areas that looked like they might have been stables. 

Each of the partially-crushed boxes had that sling, that had gone under his equine belly. Some of the gate-like doors hung off their hinges, and those boxes were empty. If their inhabitants hadn’t been flung free, they’d clearly long since fled. But there were bodies – heads smashed, or torsos speared by shards of metal as long as spears. Many of the stalls were crushed by a beam thicker than Thorgan’s whole body. He could barely stand to keep looking. But one stall had aluminum packing crates, like it’d been pressed into service as storage, and Thorgan eagerly dragged these away from the licking flames. 

At the end of the row, the last stall had caved in, was flattened. But there was something under the ruined wall. Feeling sick, and certain of what he would find, Thorgan tried to push the separating panel away. Then, when it wouldn’t move, he put his shoulder under, braced his legs, and heaved. Every one of his sore, abused muscles stood taut. Then he heard a muffled groan from under the rubble, and he managed to shove still harder, and then the trapped centaur was free – somehow still alive, and *free.* Big, fur so dark it was almost black, the other centaur dragged himself out, staggered up and nearly fell again, before steadying himself on three legs. Thorgan let the panel fall with a smash. He winced. If the dead didn’t draw unwanted attention, that noise certainly would. 

Thorgan lifted his little shard of metal, and turned to help the stranger with his arm bindings. But the taller centaur had already freed himself, somehow muscled and twisted it apart. And he somehow had a sword. Well, not a sword, but a jagged piece of metal big enough to be one.

“Stay back!” the stranger snarled, eyes wild. Thorgan was a draft type centaur, but the stranger was even bigger, tall and sleek – except where his skin was crossed with pale scars. And… were those traces of paint on his fur? 

“You’re… wild?” Thorgan said, agape. The Masters said the wild ones were nothing but animals, incapable of speech or reason.

“Clanless slave, your ‘masters’ will not have Sparta!”

“I… ok. Sparta, that’s you? I don’t have—” Thorgan could feel his skin twitching. “My Masters aren’t here. Only us. I just got you free. I’m not going to hurt you. I know some medicine; will you let me look at your leg?”

The firelight flickered along that jagged, makeshift sword. It looked like Sparta knew how to use it. “There is nothing you can do, clanless,” the dark centaur snarled.

“It’s Thorgan, not clanless,” Thorgan said, not certain what gave him the courage. He tossed his little piece of metal aside. The ground was littered with them, anyway. “And maybe not. But I’d like to try.”

Sparta studied him for long moments, shoulders back and proud, despite the blood dripping from his lifted hoof. Then he nodded solemnly. “You may try.”

\--

They made their camp a kilometer from the crash site, between rocky outcroppings that Sparta thought were defensible, and more importantly in Thorgan’s mind, sheltered a little spring of clean water. It was an easy walk for Thorgan, but slow going for Sparta and Mirin. So it fell to Thorgan to bring back the crates of supplies, and whatever scrap metal could be salvaged. 

At first, Thorgan assumed the pair wouldn’t be capable of much. Sparta had to lean heavily on a branch to even walk, and Mirin had cried softly and trailed behind them all the way. But on Thorgan’s first return, he found Mirin smiling tentatively in the predawn light, a rickety table and several tall belly chairs constructed from acadia tree branches and some of the rope restraints separated out into thick yarn. On Thorgan’s second trip, he returned to find a crude metal sheet roof constructed to shield the supplies. 

When the sun came up, casting a dull red glow over the plains, Thorgan took a moment to check his companions’ wounds. Mirin’s parts were still too swollen to see anything, but he applied some lidocaine spray from the crates, and more healroot juice. Sparta’s leg didn’t look any better under the light of day. He still couldn’t tell whether it was broken, but given the swelling, he assumed it was possible. The best he could do was rewrap the limb, packing healroot pulp around the shredded skin. Sparta said nothing through the procedure, but Mirin was feeling well enough to talk.

“—and then I found out that when you split the stalks, it makes all this fluff! But I picked a lot of the young ones, and I think they’re really strong so maybe we can make some baskets, like if we put them over our backs we can carry more, do you think? Sparta says it’s a good idea, if we’re going to travel and raid settlements and get some mares.”

Thorgan looked up from the packaged survival meal he was inspecting. “…Mares?” He knew raiders. They’d struck his colony from time to time, despite the things the Masters did to those they captured alive. 

“Yeah, we need ‘em if we wanna be safe.” Mirin’s clever hands moved quickly as he wove a reed through the tangle of vegetation he was making. It might have been a basket. 

Thorgan was all for being safe. “I don’t think animals will help us do that,” he said.

“Well, and take over this planet’s grassland. Sparta says—”

“Planet?” Thorgan shook his head, long chestnut mane sweeping over his back. “We’re on Rilus 9. I heard the men talking. The—the ship didn’t have time to travel far.”

“Untrue,” Sparta said. “Do not deny the evidence of your own eyes. Does that look like any sun of Rilus?”

Thorgan ducked his head, focusing on activating the survival meal’s heating unit correctly. He unwrapped a cranberry biscuit. 

“So once we get the mares, Sparta says we can establish some borders, maybe other colonies, and then—”

“I… really don’t think a yearling like you needs horses, mares or otherwise,” Thorgan managed, more than a little disturbed.

“I’ve seen three summers! I’m not a yearling!” Mirin protested, puffing himself up to try to stand taller, even though at three he was probably finished growing.

“Not horses,” intoned Sparta, casting Thorgan a level look. 

Thorgan swallowed heavily. Then he left the rest of the meal to heat, and returned to the wreckage for another load of scrap. When he came back, there was no more talk of finding and enslaving two-legs, fortunately, although Mirin chattered just as much. Yawning heavily, Thorin helped him pack mud around the huge basket he’d made, until it was a reasonably cool and secure place to store food. Mirin proudly put the handful of berries he’d found inside. “And then I saw a cassowary. Did you know they came from Old Earth?” Mirin seemed very proud to know this fact. “They’re supposed to be really mean, but this one just ran away. Hey, Thorgan?”

“Hmm?”

Mirin lowered his voice, though with Sparta sleeping while standing, or pretending to sleep, just on the other side of the tiny shack they’d built, bad leg propped up with some torn fabric and a stump, chances were good he could hear anyway. “Before we take a nap. Do… you think you could put on some more of that spray? It really… the thing they did to me….”

“Yes, yes of course,” Thorgan went to the little stack of medical supplies. He didn’t know what some of it did, and there were only a few kits to be found, but it was worth it for this. He led Mirin out into the light, and patting Mirin’s flanks, moved back to look. 

Mirin sniffed softly, uncharacteristically quiet while Thorgan very gently palmed the soft skin, trying to get the painkiller everywhere. “I hate them,” the little piebald centaur said at last. “All of them.”

Thorgan hesitated, and put back the adhesive bandages. They’d do more harm than good, he thought, but perhaps this tube of antibiotic gel could be of use. “I… not all the two-legs are like that. My Masters never did that to me. They kept me safe whenever we had raids. Even when the fields were burned, there was hay.”

“Hay? Ugh.” Mirin shuddered. Which was a reasonable response, Thorgan figured. “And anyway, they sold you. They must have known what would happen.”

“Sold? I was stolen,” Thorgan said blankly, warming the gel in his hands.

He needn’t have bothered; the little centaur didn’t even jump as he carefully started to apply it. The skin was still very swollen, and abraded where the strap had gouged in, but the terrible redness was starting to diminish. “Really? Because mine sold me. I was in the pen a long time before the ship, and no one I met had been stolen. ‘Deals for steers,’ they said.” 

“I was stolen. I had to have been,” Thorgan maintained. 

The look Mirin gave him was unexpectedly knowing. And sad. “…Alright,” was all he said. 

\--

“You will at least carry it with you.”

“I will not,” Thorgan said simply, wiping his forehead. He breathed deeply a few times, pulled his flask around for a drink, then leaned into his harness to start dragging the plow again. It wasn’t a real plow, just a few blades of metal hammered together, but it worked nearly as well. Thorgan was grateful to both of his companions for making it. 

“You *will.*” Sparta limped alongside for a few steps, gripping the straps of the holster so hard, his knuckles were white. Then, “You are infuriating.” 

“Thank you,” Thorgan fought to keep the grin off his face for a moment, then gave it up as a lost cause. “Truly. I’d end up shooting off my own hoof or something.” 

“When the two-legs come to thieve whatever you are planting, you will wish you had a weapon. Even this pistol.” 

“There might not even be humans nearby at all. But when the rice matures, I’ll wish we had a stove. And a better pot,” Thorgan prodded gently, stopping at the end of the next row to rest. “The one you made is very nice, but it does leak a bit.” The packaged survival meals would last another six weeks, as best he could estimate. Maybe a bit less, the way Mirin ate, like he’d never really seen enough food in his life. And even the fastest growing seeds wouldn’t mature before then. But it was better to have growing plants rather than nothing. And so Thorgan planted. 

Sparta almost quivered with rage. A few days ago, that look on the dark blood bay would have frightened Thorgan into compliance. Regardless of Sparta’s awkward three-legged stance, Thorgan suspected the tribal warrior could still run him down, eventually. But with everything else so strange, the usual rules felt fluid. And since the warrior had let his first few quips slide, some unpracticed sense of whimsy urged Thorgan to press the boundaries just a little more each day. 

The bigger stallion exhaled hard, then turned and stalked away – as well as he could, anyway. Probably to sulk, or make more of those intimidating heavy black arrows. Thorgan sighed, pulling the plow around again for another stripe across the field. It was meditative, he found, clearing land, tucking seeds beneath the soil. There was no telling how fertile this land might be for the seeds he’d found in that survival kit, but if he planted a few furrows of native plants, there should be some harvest. Thoughts of growing things sustained him pleasantly through the long afternoon, punctuated by distant clattering from up the hill where whatever Mirin and Sparta were making was taking shape. At peace, Thorgan stopped to look over the field with the satisfaction of a task well-done.

“Pretty horsey,” the murmur came from the bushes. Thorgan blinked, turned, too surprised to run.

“Hey, pretty horsey, what you doing way out here?” The accent was thick, some of the words strange to him. But it was pretty clearly interstellar common. The tone, perfectly even and a little bit lilting, was familiar. The shrubs at the end of the field shuddered, and a human pushed himself to his feet, a little unsteadily. The two-legs’ hands shook, but his voice was soothing. “Such a pretty horsey. I have an apple for you. You want an apple?”

*Apples.* Thorgan hadn’t realized how hungry he was, after the long work. He took a step forward. The straps of the plow tugged at him, held him back.

“Bet you’ve been lonely, out here all alone, horsey. Pretty horsey.” Emboldened, the human stepped forward. He held the apple behind his back. His lightweight leather shirt and trousers were somewhat worse for wear, tattered at the hems, one sleeve ripped entirely off. 

Thorgan unbuckled the main line, curious, and went to investigate. The human shook a little, fine shivers, as if afraid. Thorgan didn’t want the human to be afraid. But he smelled sour, like the men who liked gojuice. That was fine, Thorgan could make gojuice, when the Masters told him to. “Pretty, pretty horsey. You want this apple?” the human came closer, and Thorgan pricked his ears forward, waiting obediently for the apple. 

Someone shouted behind him. Just as Thorgan turned his head, annoyed at the distraction, the human drew its hand out from behind its back – and drove its heavy stone club right at Thorgan’s head. The centaur tried to rear, not fast enough, and the rough stone whapped into the side of his face with a meaty thunk. Squealing, Thorgan went down hard, collapsing onto one knee, then his chest, hooves flailing and tearing up the plowed soil. The world was dim and spinning, and Thorgan felt sick. “Fuckin’ horse,” the human panted, hands tearing at the straps across his torso, ripping the flask and pouches free. He lifted up the club again. Why would the Master – Thorgan had been good, he hadn’t –

Another wet sounding thunk, but this time the human howled instead, staggering back. Then another, and this time the two-legs tumbled entirely over, back against the broad bulk of a fallen log, screaming. He tried to rise, but it was like he was pinned, struggling against nothing.

No, not nothing. The fletchings of a black arrow stood like an ornament against his leather shirt, now darkening slowly. Thorgan smelled blood, and this time he was sick, vomiting the contents of both upper and lower stomachs up into the dirt. A slow, limping tread approached. 

“Are you harmed?” Sparta said, dispassionately. 

Thorgan spat a little bitter saliva and shook his aching head, tentatively pushing both palms into the turned soil to lever his torso upright. 

Sparta used the end of his bow to flick the strap and pouches free of the human’s spasming grip, and over towards Thorgan. Something else hit the ground there, and Thorgan blinked muzzily. The holstered pistol. 

“Seems we’ve shot a little bird.” He gripped the exposed bit of shaft at the man’s shoulder, and yanked hard. The two-legs screamed once, horribly, legs thrashing feebly. Thorgan saw now the fletchings of a second arrow at the man’s hip. Sparta grabbed the front of the man’s shirt and dragged him up, higher atop the log, then jammed the dripping arrow back down – through the clothing, Thorgan thought, for there was no scream. “Where is your tribe, biped?”

“Ain’t tellin’ a fuckin animal nothing!” In reply, Sparta only grabbed the front of the man’s trousers and just ripped them open, breaking the closures right off. 

“Where is your tribe.” Sparta snarled, capturing a kicking leg. He swept off the rags the human had been using as hooves – not even proper shoes – and then jerked the separated trouser leg down the limb, flinging the fabric away. 

“W-what are you doing?” Thorgan whispered, jaw clicking as he tried to move it.

The human gave a laugh even more terrible than the screams. “Everywhere! Just over that hill! Gonna come for me, they are! Fuck off, degenerate!” 

Sparta aborted the human’s attempts to kick by an easy-seeming grip at the knee, and used his leverage to jerk the man’s legs wide. Not man, Thorgan thought – but rather raider, even if this one did seem poorer and less well-equipped than those that had ever threatened his colony. The dark blood bay fixed Thorgan with a piercing gaze, and he shrunk lower. In a tone only marginally softer, the bigger centaur said, “do you want him first?”

Thorgan shook his head, unsure. 

“Fine.” Sparta stepped over the fallen man, still keeping his weight off one leg, standing wide enough so that the human’s attempts to bite met nothing but air. “Where is your tribe, your city.” 

The man’s – the raider’s – situation was beginning to dawn on him, ass bare, over a log at belly height, folded almost double by that steely grip at his knees. “You – don’t you fucking – “

Sparta let his cock slip free of the sheath. It emerged all in a rush, perfectly controlled, the head like Thorgan’s fist and it wasn’t even flared out fully yet. The thick obsidian meat slapped wetly against the raider’s ass, nudged up under his shrinking balls. “Your city.”

“Nnngh—” there was real panic in the raider’s thrashing now. “—B—Black Delta.”

Sparta’s muscles tensed, standing out like ropes across his haunches. “Where is it.”

“…six days, northeast. Now let me go you fucking anim—”

Sparta gave a little hunch forward, drawing a shill scream from his captive. But the head was too big, even well-placed, and slipped wetly down. Sparta repositioned. “Is there a road.”

“Eat shit and die, you fuckin’—”

This time, the tip caught the rim of the little opening, and Thorgan could see the spread. The raider’s cock and balls were tiny things, smaller than two fingers, sack drawn up tight. His thrashing was desperate, despairing, but somehow it worked, angling his hips so that the dark head of Sparta’s cock slipped up to bump painfully over those shriveled organs. Sparta only repositioned. “Is there a road.”

“N-not straight. Runs between, east-west. Please—don’t—fuckin’—”

“What are Black Delta’s defenses.” 

“Let me fuckin go an I’ll tell you – arrrrgh!” the little probing stroke of Sparta’s haunches this time speared the head in, a monstrous stretch, just spreading the hole open and open and more. The head sank in with an audible squelch, the rim stretched white around the veined shaft even once the flare was in. 

“Defenses.”

“N---I don’t – Arrgh!”

Sparta twisted his hips, screwing a few inches in. Thorgan knew how much it had hurt, just having a biped’s cock inside. Something like this… “Mortars.” 

“St—two! Stop stop enough—”

“Turrets.” another little push. The rim of the raider’s hole clung to the penetration, and now Thorgan could see the way the massive cock was forcing a space for itself inside the biped’s belly, bulging out the pain-hollowed skin just above the public bone. With one more grinding twist, the human came, thin pale liquid dribbling from its shrunken cock, as that head mashed against prostate and bladder through the thin walls, emptying both. 

“S-six take it out take it out!” The human was sobbing now, its struggles growing weaker. And for a moment, it seemed Sparta might comply. The centaur shifted back, a tender white ring of tissue clinging to him, the human’s body reluctant to let him go. 

But it was only to re-adjust the angle. “Perimeter walls.” This time the push gained him three or four inches, the bulge moving deeper each time. 

“Oh god pleas—”

“Walls.” 

By the time he was balls-deep, the questions were finished. The human hung limp in Sparta’s grasp, incoherent and begging, bloody hips lifted up off the log by the knees. The cock was so deep in him the bulge went most of the way to his sternum, like the things inside him were rearranged, or just broken. There wasn’t much blood, as Sparta started to pump out and then in again, so maybe it was the former, but that distinction didn’t seem to matter much to the human. It cried, squealing and tattered, sounds punched from its lungs with every thrust.

Those were getting easier now, the way slick with Sparta’s arousal. Thorgan could appreciate the way the human’s body sucked on that massive rod, welcomed it wetly back. But Sparta was silent, focused and expressionless, as he chased his pleasure inside the sheath of the body below him. 

When he finally came, the human sucked a breath, and *howled.* It went on and on, visibly filling the creature’s belly, every drop sealed inside by that flared head. The bolus of come was injected so deep, even after Sparta rested and then withdrew – a long wet sound – it took several seconds for even a little to trickle out. Like the swollen tissues inside were clinging to keep every drop inside as long as they could. 

The hole was a gaping ruin, not even trying to twitch closed. Sparta held out his hand, and Thorgan fumbled his shoulder flask into it, blindly. With a faint air of satisfaction, Sparta poured a little water into his hand and rinsed off his cock – Thorgan winced what must have been a shocking cold – then plucked a handful of grass to wipe it clean, before it withdrew fully into its sheath. 

The human lay motionless, exhausted, still whispering pleas. Sparta handed the flask back. He tilted his head, considering Thorgan’s expression. “Would you like to use it?” he said.

“Uhm.” Thorgan shifted awkwardly. If he focused on how sorry he felt for the creature, it was easier to keep the head of his own cock inside its sheath. He felt half-addled himself, still partly dazed.

“It is what they are made for.” Sparta studied him for a moment. “Regardless. This one may recover, if its wounds don’t rot. It cannot be allowed to take word of our camp to its kind.” 

“We--- we could, uhm. Capture him?” Thorgan hazarded. 

Sparta gave the proposal due consideration. “A young mare, yes. A pleasure sheath, not now. I cannot hunt enough game to sustain one.” 

“…Oh,” Thorgan said, quietly. The rice wouldn’t be ready in time either, he thought, even if animals or fire didn’t take the crops. Sparta withdrew his knife – a piece of plasteel from the ship, honed to a fine edge, handle wrapped with rope – from its case at the curve of his back.

“Go,” Sparta said, as gently as Thorgan had ever heard. “Send Mirin down, then rest and eat. We will take care of this.”

Thorgan nodded blankly and turned. The combination of shame, relief, arousal, and lingering dizziness seemed to turn his legs half to jelly, as he broke into a trot. 

But he took the little pistol with him.


End file.
